


An Anatomy of Autonomy

by Phrensiedom



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Human, Human Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Human Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Human Simon (Detroit: Become Human), Human Trafficking, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Slavery, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:21:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26783569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phrensiedom/pseuds/Phrensiedom
Summary: Following a particularly egregious error made by a second-rate shipping company, Markus is delivered a secondhand Box Boy who was illegally sold without processing through a licensed Box Boy/Babe retailer. While the concept of human slavery, wherein the slave has knowingly consented to their enslavement, has become fairly well-accepted within society, Markus has never been comfortable with it.However, when faced with the dilemma of owning another human being or turning that human being away, likely to be treated atrociously by another owner or even starve in transit, he finds himself welcoming the Box Boy, Connor, into his home. Markus quickly discovers Connor is incapable of caring for himself or living on his own, thus presenting the challenge of helping Connor discover his autonomy, that he may reintegrate into society and never be subject to another's whims ever again.
Relationships: Connor/Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Markus/Simon (Detroit: Become Human)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 56





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mimoru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mimoru/gifts).



> PLEASE NOTE: This work is unfinished and abandoned. I will not be continuing it.
> 
> Content warnings: Modern slavery; reference to historical emotional, physical, and sexual abuse, of both an adult and a child; mild dubious consent; posttraumatic response.
> 
> This will be a sort of an ongoing side fic for me, something sweet and simple I can come back to when I start getting burned out on other pieces. Many thanks to Mimoru (@mimorugk on Twitter) for their concept of a Box Boy AU for Markus and Connor that sparked this fic and to the originators of the Box Boy Universe on Tumblr!

Markus blinked, his mismatched blue and green eyes widening. He had never encountered a mail carrier so openly hostile. He glanced between the glaring man and the large wooden box he carted on a dolly. Markus said, “I’m sorry, _what_ is this?”

“It’s the living, breathing human being you purchased.” The disgust was palpable in the mail carrier’s voice.

“A Box Boy? I didn’t order—”

“Don’t bother, buddy. It says right here—” He extended his clipboard for Markus to see his precise address listed on the invoice. The name, however, was wrong. He didn’t even know anyone named Elijah Kamski. “—that this is for you.” Markus again opened his mouth to protest, but the man cut him off. “I don’t care, just take it. I can’t bring this thing back to the warehouse because it will starve.”

Markus regarded the box once again, pondering how an adult man could fit in such a small box. He finally nodded, drawing in and gradually releasing a deep breath. He was repulsed by the thought that he was being mistaken for someone who would buy another human being, but he couldn’t do nothing and leave them alone in a dark, cramped crate to starve to death. He accepted the clipboard and scrawled his utterly illegible signature on the line before handing it back.

The mail carrier grumbled as he was forced to haul the dolly up the three stairs to the small front porch and inside the front door. He removed the dolly from beneath the box and left, mumbling, “Disgusting motherfucker,” as the front door swung shut behind him.

Markus sighed as he studied the box, grappling with conflicting feelings. While he wished to release the man enclosed within the box as soon as possible to spare him further pain or discomfort, he was alternately terrified to be tasked with handling a real, true modern-day slave.

After a few minutes of paralyzed inner debate, Markus scrubbed his face and murmured, "Oh, fuck it." He bent and released the latch, shoving the lid back to reveal a pale young man curled up within the wooden crate. His knees were pulled to his chest, and his arms were wrapped around his knees. Around his neck, he wore a thick collar with a heavy-looking black box attached to the front, which Markus had little doubt enabled tracking and shocking of its unfortunate wearer. He could immediately pick out innumerable bruises and healed scars just on the small amount of flesh that was visible to him. 

The young man's eyes were closed, and Markus knelt beside the crate so as to not make himself an imposing figure over the clearly heavily abused young man. Closer, he could see the Box Boy had a soft, youthful face that was childlike in nature; fluffy dark chestnut brown hair that held a loose natural curl; and pale white, sun-starved skin. Markus could not deny he was extraordinarily beautiful, despite the dark, sleep-deprived circles beneath his eyes; the bruises on his left cheekbone and along the right side of his jaw; and his own distress at seeing the young man in such a condition.

Markus did not wish to startle him, but he could not think of a sufficiently gentle way to awaken him. So, in a voice as low and soft as he could manage, Markus said, “Hello. My name is Markus.”

Despite his efforts, the Box Boy startled, his body jerking and his eyes snapping open. He turned his head upward, his warm brown eyes wide with terror, and stared at Markus as if he had slapped him across the face.

He gave no indication he had heard Markus’ statement, so Markus repeated himself, saying, “Hi. My name is Markus. What’s your name?”

The young man hesitated and then said, “Boy.” His voice was so quiet as to be nearly inaudible.

Markus resisted the instinct to frown with confusion and said, “Your name is ‘Boy’?”

The young man considered for a moment, his expression flat, and his eyes searching Markus’ face. A faint crease appeared between his eyebrows for a moment, and he said, “That is what my master called me.”

Markus felt sick to his stomach. “Have you ever had a different name?”

The Box Boy again considered, his brow furrowing deeper this time, and said, “Connor.” He paused. “I think.”

“Okay. Connor it is.” Markus drew a bracing breath and extended his hand, saying, “Here, let me help you out of there.”

Connor looked at his hand for a few long moments before finally grasping it and pulling himself up to a sitting position. He glanced around the living room, which was carpeted and held a couple of chairs and a couch, along with a few ceiling-height bookshelves that were crammed well beyond their capacity. The young man’s gaze lingered on these, prompting Markus to follow his line of sight.

“Do you like books?” he asked, giving Connor a soft smile.

Connor nodded and lowered his gaze to the floor. Markus didn’t quite understand this behavior, but he didn’t want to push him too far too fast. Instead of questioning him, he stood and offered Connor his hand again, which the latter took to assist himself in getting to his feet. He immediately grimaced and grabbed Markus’ forearm with his other hand, his legs beginning to quake. Markus frowned with concern, slowly backing up to allow Connor to step out of the crate.

Connor took a couple of steps into the room and pitched forward into Markus’ arms, his leg and knee muscles tightly cramped from having been folded up in the box. The side of his face connected with Markus’ chest, and his arms grabbed around his waist, clinging to him, while Markus reacted quickly enough to grab his shoulders.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. I’ve got you,” Markus said. He scooped Connor into his arms, one beneath his knees and the other around his back, and paused to look at him. “Doing okay?”

Though a faint dusting of pink had appeared on Connor’s cheeks, he nodded, his eyes averted, as he had been taught from a very young age. Markus hadn’t recognized how close they now were until seeing the blush, and it sparked a touch of anxiety in his chest. Suppressing the feeling, he crossed over to the couch and lowered Connor to it. The young Box Boy’s eyes widened again, and he drew his arms into his chest, his gaze darting from one spot to the next on the piece of furniture. He appeared truly terrified. Markus inclined his head to better look Connor in the eye and said, “There’s no reason to be frightened.”

Connor’s gaze hesitated on Markus’ heterochromatic eyes for a moment before darting away. Voice as faint as before, he said, “But, I’m on the furniture.”

“That’s okay. You’re allowed to use the furniture.”

Connor’s brows pinched together, and his lips trembled, but he didn’t argue. Talking back, even if he hadn’t intended to offend his owner, often resulted in the worst punishments.

Markus, again, didn’t wish to push him too far, so he simply let it be, instead focusing on Connor’s knees and legs. He lightly placed his fingers on the patellar tendon, directly below the kneecap, of Connor’s right leg, and the injured man winced hard.

“I think alternating ice and heat will help the most. Just a moment, I’ll get an icepack.” Markus smiled and stood, heading into the kitchen to retrieve an icepack and a towel within which to wrap it.

As soon as his owner stepped into the kitchen and out of sight, Connor crawled down from the couch, biting hard on his lower lip as he went to stifle a scream of pain. His anxiety about damaging the furniture even slightly was far too great to withstand, even if his new owner had stated it was okay for him to use them. He instead lay on the floor in the middle of the room, away from all three pieces of furniture, his legs bent only slightly, as it hurt too much to fully extend or bend them.

Markus returned within a few minutes, having dug the heating pad out of the closet as well, and froze in his tracks upon finding Connor lying on the carpet. He would let this go as well, in the interest of not frightening the young man any further, and sat down next to Connor’s legs. He laid one icepack on each knee, making Connor flinch twice, and pulled out his cell phone, setting a timer for ten minutes. He looked over to Connor’s eyes and found the younger man studying him. Naturally, the skittish Box Boy averted his gaze to the far side of the room, but it heartened Markus to see he was inquisitive and curious beneath all of the damage and “training” inflicted on him.

"I imagine you’re very hungry. How long were you in that box?”

Connor shook his head and shrugged. Markus surmised that meant he had been confined within the crate for a long while.

“I don’t eat meat, so I don’t have any in the house, but I can make you just about anything else. What would you like to eat?”

Connor again shrugged and added, “Whatever you want me to eat, sir.”

Markus made a face and shook his head. “You don’t have to call me sir. In fact, please don’t.”

Connor glanced over at him, his eyes wide yet again, struggling to process this instruction. After a few moments, he nodded and returned his gaze to the far corner of the ceiling.

“Are you sure you have no requests?”

Connor nodded, and Markus set his phone down next to Connor’s hand and instructed him to switch to the heating pad after the timer went off. He stood and plugged the heating pad into the wall socket, disappearing into the kitchen once again. When certain he was alone, Connor let out a tense breath and aggressively rubbed his eyes. It seemed every year that passed, it became increasingly difficult to follow his training, but the thought of being sent back for “refurbishment” or of a personal trainer coming into the home with him was unbearable. He wasn’t sure he could survive either of those options. He had to please this new owner, or that would certainly be his fate.

Connor covered his eyes with his forearm and focused on repeating the core tenets of his training, his lips moving silently with each, struggling to not allow his distress to overwhelm him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: Modern slavery; reference to historical emotional, physical, and sexual abuse, of both an adult and a child; mild dubious consent; posttraumatic response.
> 
> Thank you to the sweet beans who gave kudos, commented, and bookmarked the first chapter. It's extremely encouraging. <3

Markus returned from the kitchen shortly, his arms overburdened with a plate topped with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a sliced apple, a bowl of steamed broccoli, a package of crackers, and a large water bottle. He lowered himself to the floor and sat criss-cross next to Connor, placing the food on the floor between them. Connor pushed himself to sitting, and Markus exchanged the heating pad on Connor’s knees for the icepacks once again. 

“How do they feel?” Markus asked.

Connor nodded and, in that tiny voice of his, said, “Better.”

“All better or just somewhat better?”

Connor studied his eyes for a moment before dropping his gaze to his lap and saying, “Somewhat.”

Markus nodded and set another 10-minute timer on his cell phone, simultaneously noticing a text message from his father. He ignored it for the time being and raised his gaze to Connor, who still sat motionless, his hands in his lap, his eyes downturned. Markus’ eyebrows dipped together with concern, and he asked, “Do you not like any of that? I can make something else.”

Connor’s eyes darted from one dish to the next. He said, “No, I like all foods.”

“Oh! Well, you can go ahead and eat.”

The Box Boy’s eyes widened with that same mixture of confusion and fear Markus had already been treated to on a few occasions within the past half-hour. This was clearly not how it had worked for him before. Markus said, “How did you eat with your previous owner?”

“He would eat his meal and give me the scraps.”

Markus bowed his head for a moment, consciously suppressing his rage and disgust before raising his head again. He said, “Would it make you uncomfortable if I asked you to eat before me?”

Connor nodded.

“Okay. Well, what about this?” Markus picked up the sandwich, took a small bite from one corner, and placed it back on the plate. “I’m finished now,” he added, sliding the plate a touch closer to Connor.

Though it only partially alleviated his anxiety, Connor did pick up the sandwich, his hands shaking with hunger, and took a respectful bite. A faint smile touched his lips, pleased with the mixture of sticky peanut butter and sweet jelly. He raised his gaze to Markus and found him smiling as well. 

“Are you sure I can have it all?” he asked, his voice nearly inaudible, forcing Markus to lean closer to him. 

“Yes. Please eat as much as you’d like of all of this,” he said, gesturing to the other foods.

Connor considered for a moment, and then took three large bites, nearly cramming the entire sandwich into his mouth in one go. 

“Whoa, whoa.” Markus put a hand on his shoulder and grabbed the water bottle with the other, passing it to Connor. “Slow down. You’re going to choke.” 

The young brunet followed his instruction, slowing his chewing and accepting sips from the water bottle to assist in breaking down the mass of bread, peanut butter, and jelly that filled his mouth. Once he had managed to swallow the remainder, he bowed his head and said, “Forgive me, that was rude.”

Markus was horrified by the desperation he had seen in Connor’s eyes—the years of being fed the bare minimum, of no escape from the gnawing sensation of hunger, of controlling his fatigue and dizziness by sheer will-power to avoid his owner’s wrath—and he felt tears prickle his own eyes. He cleared the knot from his throat and said, “I don’t care about table manners, I just don’t want you to be hurt.”

Connor bit down on his lower lip hard to fight back against the warm feeling expanding within his chest. He reminded himself that Markus’ kindness was a ruse to make him lower his guard, that he would eventually be just as cruel, abusive, and manipulative as his former owner and the Box Boy trainer who had raised him from age six. No, this owner would be no different, it was simply a matter of time before he showed his true colors. 

He nodded and waited, hands in his lap, until Markus would give him the okay to begin eating again, with a little more restraint this time. It took a few moments for the Box Boy rookie to realize what Connor was doing, but he eventually figured it out and encouraged the young man to eat as much as he wanted. Connor reached for the bowl filled with broccoli, his touch hesitant, prepared for his owner to smack his hand and berate him. But no such blow came, and he pulled the bowl closer to himself before spearing a floret and placing it on his tongue. While it was far more bitter than the sandwich, he enjoyed the rich flavor and returned for another piece. 

Markus couldn’t help the smile that pulled at his lips. He was delighted to see his half-starved, deeply underweight guest taking in critical nutrients. “Okay,” he said, his tone upbeat, “you keep eating, and I’ll find a spot for that crate in the garage.”

Connor hesitated, his warm brown eyes studying Markus’ face for a moment, and then nodded. He would be glad to have it out of the room. He had repeatedly caught sight of it out of the corner of his eye, and it had made his muscles stiffen tightly each time. He had been trained extensively on tolerating the close conditions of a shipping box, but it was still a terrifying and excruciating experience.

Markus pushed himself to his feet and crossed the room to the small entranceway to the house. Gazing down into the crate, he noticed a large packet likely filled with documents and a small, black cloth pouch attached to the panel of wood, near where Connor’s head had been. Frowning, he peeled the pouch off first, inside of which he found a palm-sized remote control made of what appeared to be similar material to the box on the collar about Connor’s neck. Markus shuddered, gingerly slipping the device back into the bag and placing it on a chest-high shelf of a nearby bookcase. 

He then opened the packet and pulled out a thick stack of documents, as he had expected. The top sheet listed the contents, which included instructions for owning a Box Boy with sexual training, a non-inclusive list of the responsibilities that accompanied ownership, a copy of the contract signed by Connor, a document verifying his ‘training’, and a proof-of-ownership deed. Reading through the list alone spooked him nearly as much as the remote control, and he slid the documents back inside the envelope before placing it on the floor next to the bookshelf. 

Letting out a breath, Markus closed the lid of the crate, careful not to slam it. He lifted it by the handles on either end and carried it around the corner and into the darkened and chilly garage. Markus lived alone in the small, single-floor home and had barely touched the adjoining two-car garage, so he was able to stash the crate in a far corner, where it would be out of sight and out of mind. Turning to head back into the house, his cell phone buzzed in his back pocket, and he paused to pull it out. 

"Oh fuck," he murmured, finding his fiancé’s photo--the sweet one Markus had quickly snapped after kissing him, wherein his cheeks were flushed and his lips were slightly reddened and pulled up in a self-conscious smile--on the screen. In his shock and confusion, he'd completely forgotten about their plans. “Hey, Si.”

“Are you home yet?”

Markus winced. Connor had arrived nearly the instant he’d walked in the door. He hadn’t even had time to change out of his work clothes, he realized. He rubbed his eyes and said, “Yeah, just got in the door. It was a long day.”

“You’re not going to cancel on me, are you?” Simon’s voice was tense and raised in pitch. He wasn’t angry, Markus knew, he was struggling to contain his anxiety. They had planned to spend the weekend together precisely because his mental health was suffering so much. 

“No, of course not. You can head over now.”

Simon let out a sharp breath, and said, “Oh, thank god. I’ve been pacing around the apartment for the past hour.”

The guilt that flooded Markus’ gut was painful. While he’d been transfixed with the unexpected addition to his life, Simon had been in agony, unable to rest or even sit still. He felt terrible, but he hoped he could make it up to his dearest love that evening. 

“All right. See you soon, and drive safe. If you start panicking, pull over and call me. I can pick you up.”

“I know, I know.” There was a smile in Simon’s voice, despite his distress. “I’ll be there soon.”

They said their goodbyes and hung up. Markus groaned and headed back into the house, ruminating on how he was going to approach this. He couldn’t very well hide Connor for the entire weekend, but would Simon believe him if he explained it was a mix-up? Of course he would, but he certainly didn’t need the added stress, anxiety, and fears he would be replaced by the Box Boy. Markus would have to be tactful and gentle with both of them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: Modern slavery; reference to historical emotional, physical, and sexual abuse, of both an adult and a child; mild dubious consent; posttraumatic response.
> 
> I have so many ideas for this fic. Curse my need to write everything in minute detail. Being patient is hard. But thank you for those who are sticking with me! <3

Re-entering the living room, Markus found Connor precisely where he had left him, sitting on the floor in the middle of the room, his head ducked, eyes on the carpet beneath him. The plate and bowl were completely empty, along with half of the sleeve of crackers. Markus studied the young man from the other side of the room for a few moments, noting the way he was slumped forward, his spine curved; how loosely his sweater fit him; how perfectly still and silent he sat there, obedient, neither heard nor seen until he was needed. 

Markus’ phone, still in his hand, began to beep, announcing the ten-minute timer had run out. It made his stomach leap, and Connor briefly raised his gaze to Markus before returning it to his lap. Markus crossed the room and bent to gather the used dishes from the Box Boy’s meal. Realizing this, Connor grabbed Markus’ wrist, saying, “Please, let me take care of the clean-up, sir.” He paused, his brow furrowing. “I-I mean Markus.”

“I can handle it. You just focus on swapping those icepacks for the heating pad.” 

Markus smiled, hoping to set Connor at ease, but it only made him worry he wasn’t doing enough to justify his presence in his owner’s home. He reached up and curled his fingers through the belt loops on the front of Markus’ black slacks, gazing up at him with the softest doe eyes he could muster. His voice still as hushed as ever, he said, “Then, let me serve you in a different way.” He bit his lower lip and lowered his eyes to Markus’ groin for a moment before returning to meet his owner’s eyes, continuing, “Please, I want to satisfy your every desire.”

Markus stiffened at Connor’s touch, and a fierce blush rose within the warm tawny flesh of his cheeks. He froze for a few moments, struggling to tamp down the sensation of electricity skittering through his veins, and finally placed the dishes back on the carpet. He took Connor’s hands and carefully unhooked his fingers from his belt loops, lowering himself to sit next to the puzzled, wide-eyed Box Boy, still cradling his hands.

Keeping his voice soft and low, he said, “Connor, I am not your owner.” Connor did not react. “You were mistakenly delivered to me. I don’t need you to do anything except be patient while I figure out how to handle all of this.”

“Oh,” Connor said, unable to muster anything louder than a whisper. “You are deciding if you will keep me or send me back.”

“Yes,” Markus said, and neither of them spoke for a few long moments thereafter. Finally, Markus said, “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Connor studied Markus’ blue and green eyes, his gaze darting back and forth between them, and he asked, “Freely?”

Markus nodded, his expression as earnest as he could manage. Connor’s eyes darted over his face: from his eyebrows to his lips to his forehead, his cheeks, his eyes, assessing whether it was truly safe to divulge what he wanted to say. But he didn’t know Markus well enough to determine when he was being truthful and when he was attempting to trick him. Knowing it was better to err on the safe side, he said, “Whether you purchased me or not, you are now my owner. My only purpose in life is to please you.”

Looking away, Markus attempted to hide his frustration and disappointment. The trusting, vulnerable expression he’d observed on Connor’s face had led him to believe he would open up, but that clearly was false. He met Connor’s gaze and held it for a few moments, hoping to divine his thoughts, but he needn’t have. The young man leaned forward and kissed him, one hand coming to rest against the side of his neck, and the other finding his nipple and gently massaging it with his thumb. 

Markus again found himself frozen, shocked by this behavior—and more aroused by it than he would care to admit—but the sensation of pressure on his nipple startled him back out of his petrification. He took Connor’s wrists and eased him away, causing the brunet’s eyebrows to peak, terrified he had misstepped and would be punished accordingly. 

After years of cleaning up his after his brother’s poor choices, Markus was a master at calming himself. He drew in a full breath, willing the anger that had flared in his stomach at having his boundaries violated, to dwindle. His voice even and low, he said, “I understand this is a massive change for you, but you can’t do that.”

Connor swallowed visibly, his mouth a desert, his hands beginning to tremble in Markus’ grasp. He whispered, “Forgive me. I will be good.”

Markus let him go and said, “I forgive you.” Still flustered by the whole situation, the heat in his gut needling him with guilt, he abruptly changed the conversation. “My fiancé will be here soon. We should clean you up a bit before he arrives.”

Connor looked down at the lightweight grey sweater and thin jeans his former owner had clothed him in prior to locking him in the crate. The clothing had barely kept him warm enough in transit, and even now, inside a heated home, he was still uncomfortably chilly. He had always run cold and required extra layers than everyone else, which his former owner had only allowed him when he was good. He nodded and accepted Markus’ offered hand to pull himself to his feet, finding his knees much improved, with only minor discomfort. He followed Markus into the master bedroom and through to the master bathroom. 

It was a fairly small and modest room, much unlike his former home, where everything was just about as expensive as could be found on the market. Connor, however, found he liked it better—the everyday, innocuous hygiene items placed around the sink; the slight sheen of soap scum in the sink; the towels that hung crooked, all gave the space a feeling of reality, of humanity, which had been so sorely lacking from his former home. 

Markus retrieved a washcloth from a cabinet drawer and wetted it with warm water he tested with his fingers before using it to clean Connor’s face, his movements slow and gentle to avoid agitating the bruises that marked his skin. When that was done, Markus gave him a warm smile that he did not return and requested he wash his hands while Markus searched his closet for clothing for him. 

He hadn’t realized just how they differed in height—Markus 6’2” and Connor perhaps only 5’—until he stood in his closet, staring at what was available. While Simon also had a small section set aside for his sleepover clothes, the couple were nearly the exact same height, with Simon standing only one inch shorter. Aside from what Connor already wore, there wasn’t a stitch of clothing in the home that would fit him correctly. Markus scowled and picked out a pastel blue t-shirt, a medium grey sweater, and a pair of black sweatpants. 

Holding them out to Connor, he said, “I know they’ll be big on you, but I think we can make them work.” 

The young man took the hangers and examined the clothes for a moment. Though certainly not expensive or extravagant, as his former owner had always purchased for himself, they were higher quality than the barebones clothing he had always been given to wear. He nodded and laid them on the counter before pulling his shirt off over his head without so much as a pause or second thought. His hands found the button on his jeans just as Markus grabbed his forearm. 

“Whoa, wait. Give me a minute to step out so you can have privacy.”

Connor’s head tilted to the side, and he gave Markus a quizzical frown. He said, “What do you mean?”

Markus hesitated, unsure how to explain the concept of privacy and why someone would want it. After a few moments, he said, “Does it not make you uncomfortable to be nude around people you don’t know?”

Connor shook his head. “No. I have been made to be naked with strangers since I was a child.”

The Box Boy didn’t so much as blink as he said this, but Markus felt like a 2-ton weight had been dropped squarely on his stomach. He pressed his fingers to his lips, unable to speak or even think, he was so appalled. Closing his eyes for a moment, he forced the thoughts from his mind. This was not the time to discuss such terrible trauma.

"I'm sorry, Connor," Markus said, at a loss. 

Connor simply studied his eyes for a few moments before dropping his gaze to the floor. Markus hesitated, wishing he could offer Connor comfort but ultimately neither said nor did anything and headed back into the bedroom to allow him to change into the clothes. Closing the door behind himself, he caught sight of the young man's back and left side, which were badly bruised and marked by a handful of long, thin scars. This did not surprise him, nor did Connor’s indifference. He had experienced so many awful things in such a short life, it stood to reason he would have to numb himself to it in order to get through each day. This day just happened to be unique.

Markus pressed his hand to his forehead, recognizing the familiar sensation of a heavy head barely held up by a weak, scrawny neck that preceded headaches for him. He swallowed a couple acetaminophen pills from the nightstand, where he stored them due to frequent waking in the middle of the night to shooting pain and nausea. Screwing the lid back on the pill bottle, Markus turned back around and jolted, finding Connor standing three feet behind him. He hadn’t heard so much as a whisper of bare feet on the carpet. Connor was a master of silence, a critical survival skill for him throughout his life. 

He looked down at himself and lifted his arms to either side, turning in a tight circle as he had been instructed to model a new outfit. Though, those were outfits of a much different sort. Facing Markus again, he dropped his arms to his sides and gazed at him, awaiting his approval or disapproval. As expected, the clothing was far too large for him, the sweatpants so loose, Connor was forced to repeatedly pull them up to keep them on his waist and the t-shirt and sweater nearly hanging off one shoulder.

Markus stepped closer and readjusted the shirts. He said, “It’s not ideal, but I think it will work for this evening.” Even after shifting them, a large arc of Connor’s hairless chest was still exposed, his translucent alabaster skin periodically marked by fawn brown freckles, like his face. “Those pants have a drawstring on the inside of the waistband that you could tighten and knot, so you don’t have to pull them up.”

Connor looked down and, again without hesitation, yanked open the waistband to find it. Markus caught a flash of the young man’s petite cock before he whipped his head to the side and raised a hand to cover his peripheral vision. His cheeks colored a faint rose pink, and he silently cursed himself for not anticipating it. After a few moments, Connor, in his near-whisper voice, said, “Done.”

Lowering his hand, Markus examined the slightly altered outfit. While it wasn’t fundamentally different, the changes did help. In fact, it was rather cute the way the sleeves extended well past his fingertips and he clung to them for comfort; the bottom hem of the sweater gapped open, obscuring the shape of his torso; and the legs of the sweatpants covered the entirety of his feet, forcing him to pay close attention while he walked. He looked like a young child who still had much room to grow into their hand-me-down clothes. His youthful features and demeanor complicated the picture further. 

“What do you think?” Markus asked.

“It’s cozy,” Connor said, offering him a faint smile. He was just glad for the warmth they provided, “but my feet are still cold.” 

“Fuzzy socks, then,” Markus said, mirroring Connor’s smile. He crossed the room and retrieved a pair of fluffy chenille socks from one of the drawers. They were colored with a vibrant rainbow pattern, and Connor studied them closely, stroking the fabric. “My dad’s not as funny as he thinks.”

Connor raised his gaze, but his brows were drawn together with puzzlement.

“I’m gay, and he gifted me those for Christmas a few years ago.” 

The perplexed expression remained on Connor’s soft features. Markus knew he had been cut off from the outside world, but it was clear he didn’t understand the depth of that disconnect.

“The gay pride flag is a rainbow, like those socks,” Markus explained, pointing to them.

Connor’s frowned deepened, but he nodded and sat on the floor to slip them on, continuing to ponder the concept of sexual orientation pride flags, when he heard the sound of a door opening and closing elsewhere in the house.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: Modern slavery; reference to historical emotional, physical, and sexual abuse, of both an adult and a child; mild dubious consent; posttraumatic response.
> 
> It seems everyday that I get new ideas to expand this story. Barring any significant, lasting depressive episodes, it's going to be around for quite some time. Thank you to those who are sticking with me and my brief updates. :)

Markus raised his head, his stomach knotting tightly at the thought of explaining all of this to his future husband, at the sound of the front door closing. Glancing down at Connor, who still sat on the floor, wiggling his toes within the fuzzy socks, he said, "Just stay here for now. I'll be right back," in a low voice, eliciting a nod from Connor. 

Markus headed to the living room, where he found Simon hanging up his jacket in the entryway closet. Even from behind, he could see the exhaustion in his fiancé’s movements-- the sag to his shoulders, the sluggishness of his movements, the difficulty with which he hooked the hanger on the rack--and when he turned around, it was evident in the dark circles beneath his eyes and the tiny, tremulous smile he gave Markus.

They met in the middle of the room, where Markus immediately drew Simon into a hug. The exhausted blonde slumped against him and rested his chin on his shoulder, his long-fingered hands linking loosely around Markus’ lower back.

Markus pressed a hand to the back of Simon's head and said, "Tough day at work, I see."

“She died today,” Simon said, his voice weak. He was referring to a particular patient of his—a 15-year-old girl in the final stages of Juvenile Huntington’s Disease who had admitted five weeks ago to the hospice house where he worked as a nurse—whom he had told Markus about at-length. Though he had done everything he could to keep his emotional distance, he had grown to adore everything about her, and her loss was hitting him harder than any previous patient’s had.

Markus’ arms tightened about him, and he murmured, “Oh, Si. I’m so sorry.”

Simon blinked, and a pair of tears slipped down his thin cheeks, leaving glistening trails in their wake.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

He shook his head, chin still perched on Markus’ shoulder. “No, I just want to take a bath and snuggle,” he said, his voice nearly a whisper and still dangerously close to cracking. 

If Markus didn’t feel awful before, he felt like a monster now, about to spring the worst surprise on his best friend while he was already grieving. Though it was tempting to remain in the living room for a bit longer, sit with him on the couch and just hold him and his pain, he could see the remote control to Connor’s collar still sitting on the bookshelf against the wall opposite him and the envelope of documents still lying on the floor in front of it. These would not go unnoticed by Simon, not to mention the used dishes lying in the middle of the floor. 

He scowled at nothing, cursing the particularly poor timing of everything and gathering his resolve. Drawing a deep breath, he willed his expression to relax and said, “That sounds amazing, but I don’t know if it will be possible.” He eased Simon away, discovering his sky-blue eyes were opened wide and shimmered with as-yet unshed tears, his lips pressed tightly together yet still trembling. Markus’ heart ached to see him so distressed, and he pressed a kiss to his forehead. He said, “Something’s happened, but don’t worry. It’ll all be okay, I promise. Let me show you.”

Markus slipped his hand inside Simon’s and led him to the bedroom. He could feel how tense Simon was by the way the eternally gentle nurse squeezed hard enough to cause him discomfort. Stepping into the master bedroom, they found Connor sitting on the floor, now at the foot of the bed, his legs criss-crossed, his hands in his lap, his eyes closed, his head down and back hunched. He said, “Simon, this is Connor.” When the Box Boy did not move, Markus added, “Connor, this is my fiancé, Simon.”

Connor opened his eyes and raised his head to examine this newcomer, determining what he believed to be everything he needed to know about the man to keep himself safe, based on what he could see of him in that moment. Given his reserved body language, the tears evident in his eyes and on his face, and trembling in his limbs, the threat he posed to Connor was slim to nil. As he raised his head to look at him, he unwittingly revealed to Simon the collar that hung about his neck, causing the blonde to turn to look at Markus with horror, more tears slipping down his face and his mouth opening to say something he couldn’t choke out. 

Markus took his arms and said, “Breathe, Si. He was accidentally delivered here.”

Simon covered his mouth with his hand and spun around, rushing out of the room. Markus sighed and closed his eyes, murmuring, “Well, that could have gone better.” In truth, he knew that no matter what he said or how he introduced Connor, the profoundly sensitive man would have panicked. 

Both of Simon’s hands covered his mouth, his elbows resting on the table, his right knee bouncing to an aggressive rhythm only he could hear. Tears escaped from beneath his closed eyelids and rolled down his face every few seconds, and his breaths came in jerking gasps over which he had no control. He was trying his best to soothe himself, but nothing was working.

Entering the kitchen after having given Simon a few minutes of time alone, Markus pulled one of the four chairs closer to Simon and sat down. He smoothed his beloved’s golden hair and said, “Talk to me, sunshine.”

Simon smiled despite himself, still in love with his pet name even after three years as a couple. Markus laughed softly and murmured, “I saw that,” leaning in to place a kiss on his cheek. He put one arm around Simon’s shoulders and rested his forehead against Simon’s temple, closing his eyes. They remained like this for a few minutes, until Simon’s breathing leveled out again and the anxiety eased enough to allow him to rest his leg.

Drawing in a deep, trembling breath, he found one of Markus’ hands and held it between his own. Stroking his thumbs along each of his fingers, Simon said, “What are we going to do?” his delicate voice jittery as his body continued to wind down from its panicked state.

“I don’t know.”

Simon looked over at him, his brows pinched together and his lips parted, in disbelief. “You don’t know?”

Markus held his gaze steady and shook his head. He said, “You saw his face. I can’t bear to send him back, but if I don’t, the monetary and legal repercussions could be crippling.”

Simon nodded in agreement, finding himself at a loss as well. He studied his partner’s blue and green eyes for a few long moments and said, “You want me to examine him.”

“I would appreciate it.”

The exhausted blonde dropped Markus’ hand to massage his eyes, letting out a slow, audible breath as he considered the request. It was not the first time had been asked to use his nursing knowledge in his private life, and it certainly would not be the last. But, as horrified as he was about the presence of a slave in their home—and all of the possible resultant negative outcomes his overactive mind spawned while he was panicking—he was more distressed by the thought of Connor forgoing necessary or critical medical care that Simon’s assessment could have caught. 

“All right, I'll do it,” Simon said. “I would like a minute alone to just think and find a review of systems template, though.” 

"Of course." Markus hooked a finger under Simon's chin and turned his head to face him. He smiled and said, "I love you," leaning in to place a chaste kiss on his lips.

Simon gave him a soft smile and said, "I love you, too, Markus."

Markus paused for a moment to simply absorb his future husband's gorgeous features and headed back to the bedroom to check on Connor. Simon watched him go and pulled out his cell phone. Contrary to his expectation, he did not have a text message from his brother waiting, even though he had messaged him at lunch time. Scowling, he called him. The call was answered on the third ring, but there was silence. 

"Daniel?"

There was a groan, followed by, "Yeah, what?"

"Are you still in bed? It's seven o'clock."

Another groan, this one lower and closer to a grumble. "I'm tired and depressed, Si. It's my day off, I can do whatever I want, so please, just stop worrying about me." There was unmistakable irritation in Daniel's clipped voice, and though Simon felt guilty for disturbing his sleep, there was no chance he would stop worrying about his twin brother. 

"Okay, I'm sorry. Just let me know if you need me."

"I know, Simon. You never let me forget. _Goodbye_." 

The line abruptly went dead, and Simon sighed. It seemed Daniel was always in a foul mood lately, and it saddened him. They hadn't spent any time with one another is so long, and he missed him. Rubbing his forehead, Simon forced his attention back to the matter at hand and opened a web browser to search for a form from which he could conduct his impromptu evaluation. 

Connor waited in the bedroom, both curious and worried about what Markus and Simon were discussing--what had frightened his owner's partner so badly, what they were saying about him, what they were going to do with him--itching to follow them and eavesdrop. It would be simple for him, as skilled as he was in traversing a household silently, but he wouldn't. His former master was angered by many things, but clandestine behavior was by far the worst. Even the slightest suspicion that he was snooping into business that did not involve him, attempting to sneak away from him, or otherwise trying to fly under the radar, and his punishment would have him laid up in bed for a week or more. 

While he so far had not perceived Markus as a violent master, Connor was struggling to read him. One moment, he would be sending clear signals for Connor to initiate intimacy--touching him, speaking in a low voice, maintaining close physical proximity, exempting him from his responsibilities--and the next, he would chastise him and turn him away. His actions were running up against the deeply embedded programming that had begun when he was six years of age. Connor was incapable of making sense of it, according to the social rules he had been raised with, and he didn't know what Markus wanted from him. Though he had only been in the home for an hour, the stress from this new owner’s strange treatment of him was beginning to wear on his nerves. 

Connor ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, whispering, “Be good, be good, be good, be good…”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE NOTE: This will be the final chapter of this work. For a number of reasons, I am simply not feeling the drive to write this anymore. Primarily, the chapter format of storytelling just doesn't work for me right now. I need to jump around in a story's timeline and jump from project to project to keep my interest in my own writing and stories up. I will likely come back to this concept in the future, using the self-contained short pieces format I've been using for other stories, but I can't say this 100% for certain. Thank you to the readers who commented and kudosed, it was extremely encouraging. I'm sorry.

Connor lifted his gaze from the fixed point on the bland blue carpet he had been staring at while Markus and Simon were away. His owner stood leaning against the doorway to the hall, and his face provided evidence of his stress in the deep frown line separating his brows and the hard line of his mouth. Though terribly curious, Connor said nothing. 

After a few moments, Markus said, "Simon is a nurse. Would you be willing to let him examine you?"

Connor immediately answered, "Yes, sir."

Markus' expression deepened. "I'm asking you as a person, Connor, not as a Box Boy."

Connor did not see the distinction, and it showed in his vacant gaze. 

"Not considering any orders by your former owner or your Box Boy training, are you comfortable with being examined by Simon?"

"Yes," Connor answered, though he still did not understand what was being asked of him. He was a Box Boy and, for all intents and purposes, had been since he was six. There was no way for him to not consider his past instructions and programming. 

Markus eyed him for a moment, not entirely believing him, but ultimately dropped it. He said, "We will need you to be completely honest."

Connor nodded, his eyes holding Markus', and though the latter wished he could believe him, he was skeptical, especially given his behavior earlier. But, there was nothing to be done about it. He couldn't discern what was true and what false any more than he could force him to be honest. He said, "I'm sure he'll be uncomfortable with you sitting on the floor. Could you sit on the bed?"

While furniture was off-limits for him, the one exception was the bed. He didn't need permission to use it, though he tended not to anyway for fear of reprisal, but he was expected to leave it if instructed. Connor nodded readily to Markus' question and sat on the edge of the bed, which was lifted high enough his rainbow sock-clad feet dangled above the floor. Markus remained where he was, his arms crossed over his chest, and Connor watched him, struggling to read his frown. Neither spoke until Simon joined them, holding his cell phone in his hand, which was opened to a basic-looking document.

Simon gave Connor an anxious smile that twitched at the corners due to the force exerted to maintain it. He said, "Hello, Connor. As Markus said earlier, my name is Simon." Though working to keep his voice calm, it was evident from the shaking and slightly higher pitch that he was extremely nervous. "I'm a registered nurse, and I hope to be a nurse practitioner one day. I'm not a doctor, but I'll use this template--" He showed Connor the document that was pulled up on his phone. "-- that's similar to what doctors use for physicals and emergency department visits, okay?"

Connor glanced at the black text for a moment, but he had never been taught how to read. The words could have been a completely different language, and he wouldn't have noticed. He nodded in agreement.

"So, in general, how are you feeling?"

Connor shrugged. He didn't often think of such things. 

"Do you feel sick at all? Cough, fever, runny nose?"

Connor shook his head. 

"Okay, what about your eyes. Any pain or difficulty seeing?" 

Connor was quite certain he had needed glasses since early adolescence, but he had been too afraid of upsetting his owner to say anything. He was able to get by without them, anyway, so he didn't mind. He shook his head again and repeated the movement for the questions regarding his ears, nose, throat, breathing, heart, digestive system, and genitourinary system. Coming to the sections regarding muscles and skin, Simon's voice dropped soft and gentle, and he said, "May I check under your shirt for worrisome bruising or infection?"

Connor nodded and shed the sweater and t-shirt, the latter remaining stuck inside the former. Though the young Box Boy appeared unfazed, Simon was horrified by the state of his torso, and he completely failed to keep it from showing it on his face, his eyes widening and his lips parting. It was mottled with bruises, scarred lacerations, and circular cigarette burn marks of varying size, color, and stages of healing. 

"Any pain?" he asked. For the first time, Connor responded with a nod, though this told Simon little. "Any pain that's more severe than usual or worries you?"

Connor considered for a moment, studying Simon's sky-blue gaze, and shook his head. 

A slight smile appeared on Simon's lips, and he said, "That's good. You can put your shirts back on. Have you ever been hit on the head?"

Connor slipped the t-shirt and sweater over his head as one unit and then nodded. 

"How recently?"

Connor tilted his head to the side, lips pursed in thought, and said, "Four or five weeks ago."

"Did you lose consciousness?" Connor shook his head. "Vomit?" Again, a shake of the head. "Headaches, dizziness, or fatigue since then?" Yet another head shake. "Have you ever had those symptoms after a head injury?"

Connor considered this for a few moments longer and then nodded, saying, "A little bit, I think."

"And you never saw a doctor for them?"

"No."

Simon glanced over his shoulder to meet Markus’ gaze. Neither spoke nor moved, and Simon turned back to their guest, making a mental note of this. He said, “Okay.” Dropping his gaze to the next section, his stomach clenched tightly. He drew a deep breath and said, “Do you ever have thoughts about wanting to die or end your life?” While Simon was familiar with suicidality in his patients, who experienced significant pain and were in the dying process, he was not comfortable assessing for it in otherwise healthy individuals.

Connor paused for a few tortuously long moments, his head downturned, his eyes on his hands, which were fidgeting with a loose string in the cuff of his sweater. He raised his gaze to glance from Simon to Markus, still leaning in the doorway. Markus’ expression softened a touch, and he nodded, as if to remind him he had agreed to honesty. He looked back to Simon and said, his timid voice and nearly a whisper, “All the time.”

It felt as though Simon’s stomach had launched itself up into his throat and lodged there. “Do you have a plan for how you would end your life?”

Connor again appeared hesitant for a few moments, drawing his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around his legs. He shook his head. 

“If you were to suddenly think of a plan and you had access to it, would you act on it?” 

Connor again shook his head, saying, “No. I have been treated so kindly since I arrived here.”

This soothed Simon’s anxiety a touch, his throat and stomach muscles loosening. He said, “If you started having thoughts of a plan, would you tell someone?”

Connor nodded, and his gaze briefly flicked over to Markus. 

“Okay.” Simon paused for a moment, in thought, and said, “There’s nothing acutely wrong. You should probably have an MRI—” Connor had never heard the term before, but he nodded regardless, “—to check for traumatic brain injury, just to be safe. Therapy would be strongly recommended, too. But, otherwise, I don’t see a need for emergent care.” With this last statement, he turned to address Markus, who dropped his arms to his sides and crossed the room to stand beside Simon.

“All right. In that case, we’ll have you stay the night here.”

The night. Connor’s chest tightened at the thought of what would happen the next morning. Clearly, they had decided to send him back, and though he tried to moderate his facial expression, he couldn’t stop it from crumpling in disappointment and fear. He quickly lowered his head and turned his face away, but his hosts were far too perceptive to miss it. 

Markus’ and Simon’s eyes met again, and the more confident of the two crossed the room and sat down next to Connor on the bed. His tone soft, he said, “Tell me what you’re thinking, Connor.”

Though this tactic had failed before, the young man seemed more distraught this time around and more likely to be honest. Connor raised his head and studied Markus’ eyes for a few moments, biting at his lips.

“I don’t want to go back,” he said finally, his voice a nearly inaudible whisper. “I don’t want to be hit and humiliated and starved and raped anymore.”

Markus’ throat clenched so tightly, he could barely draw a breath, and in spite of his efforts, a tear slipped from his right, blue eye and tracked down his face. He knew in that moment he would not return him. He couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t at least try to protect Connor from such horrific treatment. To do so would run counter to his personal morals and his professional code of ethics as a social worker. He simply could not do it.

“I won’t,” he whispered, unable to speak aloud, his throat still cinched tightly. “I won’t send you back.”

Connor nodded, the faintest hint of a smile twitching on his lips. His eyes flicked down to Markus’ hands, still loosely wrapped about his own and lingered a moment before he looped his arms about the older man’s waist and rested his cheek on his shoulder. While Markus initially froze again, expecting another sexual advance, he quickly realized it was nothing more than a traumatized and frightened young man seeking comfort. 

He again looked back to Simon, who stood in the same spot next to the bed, his arms crossed over his chest, shoulders hunched, protective of himself. His eyes were sad, and he nodded, tilting his head toward Connor. Markus gave him a sad smile and a nod. 

He enfolded Connor in his arms and closed his eyes, grateful the timid brunet had enough courage to speak up and help him solidify his resolve. If Connor enjoyed his place in life—as the Box Boy companies claimed all of their “merchandise” did—it would be one thing, but to sit before him and witness the torment in his soft brown eyes, his innocent face, and his defeated body language as he pleaded for help and then throw him back to the wolves? He couldn’t imagine anything crueler. He didn’t know much of anything about Connor aside from his name and his appreciation of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but the need to protect him was overwhelming. 

As Connor began to pull away from the embrace, Markus followed his lead, returning his gaze to the young man’s sweet face. Connor stared back at him, his lips contorted to one side, clearly in thought. He lowered his eyes to his hands and said, “Thank you.”


End file.
